who else is hungry

my mother did not ask 

what you wanted
for dinner.
she just made it
then called you in from
the street
to wash your hands.
find your brothers
and sisters she'd yell
from the door,
and if any of your friends
are hungry bring them
in as well.
sometimes there'd be
a dozen children
gathered at the table.

my mother would
carry around
the big white bowl
of spaghetti 
and meat balls, serving,
but only after
they had all washed
their hands
in the small bathroom
on the second floor.

standing in line.

then she'd pour the cold

milk from the glass jar,
butter slices
of wonder bread
for every one,
calling each
by their own name.